


Gunshot Smile

by buttonless



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: memory loss and confusion, violence and torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttonless/pseuds/buttonless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a boy, that the Soldier knows about sometimes.</p>
<p>The boy that the Soldier knows about sometimes, he has a smile like a gunshot wound to the chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunshot Smile

 

There’s a boy, that the Soldier dreams about sometimes-

_No._

The Soldier does not dream.

 

There’s a boy, that the Soldier thinks about sometimes-

_No._

The Soldier does not think.

There’s a boy, that the Soldier imagines sometimes-

_No._

The Soldier does not imagine.

 

The Soldier does three things: He knows (what the Mission is).  He acts (to carry out the Mission).  He stops (when the Mission has been completed).

 

‘Boy’ cannot be acted. ‘Boy’ cannot be stopped.

 

There’s a boy, that the Soldier knows about sometimes.

 

The boy that the Soldier knows about sometimes, he has a smile like a gunshot wound to the chest. 

 

When the Soldier knows about the boy’s smile, it rips through him like a bullet and shocks the system as suddenly as it had been fired.  It’s a smile that bleeds, that starts small and warm but soaks into everything it touches, makes it appearance seem that much more dramatic and dries onto the skin, no matter how harshly they scrub the Soldier.

 

It’s an inconsistent smile. It might lodge itself so deep that to remove it would be dangerous. It might pass so briefly, between shaking ribs, that it blossoms twice, red and wet and messy, and goes on to hit something else instead.

 

The boy has a smile like a gunshot wound to the chest. If the Soldier knew more, he would know that smiles do not feel like pain.  But pain is the only thing the Soldier knows how to feel, and it is a relief every time, if it comes from a gunshot or from a smile like one.

 

The boy that the Soldier knows about sometimes, he has a body like the Soldier’s left arm, cold and tense and precious. To be protected.  When the boy’s body moves, the Soldier can see the pieces stretching where they come apart and back together, each bone as obvious as the metal plates. When the boy’s body hurts, time is not enough to heal it.  It needs special people, special machines, special things, and the special costs too much sometimes.

 

_“I told you, Soldier. Every wire we must fix is a meal you will not eat. Maybe you will learn, next time.”_

The boy’s body is weak, so much weaker than the Soldier or his arm.  But the boy himself, he is stronger than either. The Soldier knows this.

 

There is something wrong with the boy. The Soldier does not know this, but he knows that other people do. 

 

They are going to make the boy better, and call it a good thing. The Soldier does not know if that is really true.

 

_“Wipe him. He’ll be better, after.”_

The Soldier was not there when they make the boy better- He _is_ not there. _No._ He will not be there?

 

The Soldier does not know which is correct.

 

The boy with the gunshot wound smile would know.

 

The boy with the gunshot wound smile is so clever. He says things that are not jokes, but are still funny.  He says, “You’re taking all the stupid with you,” and that makes sense to the Soldier, though he knows that if anyone but the boy said it, it wouldn’t make any sense at all. He says other things, about things called neighbors and The War and the dock is hiring again and they’ll never get the resolution through the Senate like this and the cost of these pencils, Buck, you shouldn’t have, really. 

 

The soldier does not know if the boy with the gunshot wound smile needs to be fixed.

 

The Soldier is still.  He is good at being still.

 

He is still when he sits with his back against the humming machines, when they thread his skin with tubes.  He is still when someone presses down on his eyes, easing them closed.  He is still when the metallic walls slide up around his sides, like a gun growing around its bullet. He is still when they tell him, _“Just for a little bit, Soldier. Until we get someone to fix you.”_

The Soldier is still.

 

The boy with the gunshot wound smile is never still. His feet beat against the leg of a chair, his back twists and spasms with each cough.  His mouth moves constantly, easing the trigger of his smile to call out names the Soldier does not know.  His hands, balled into fists, dance in front of his face, dance into the face of someone else.

The boy with the gunshot wound smile would not be very good at being the Soldier.

 

_“Restart. That should fix him.”_

They are going to fix the boy with the gunshot wound smile, too.

 

They are going to take the boy with the gunshot wound smile, and place his back against humming machines and thread his pale skin with tubes.  They are going to draw a metal cage around him, and grow him into the gun and bullet and wound, all in one. 

 

The Soldier knows: _He cannot let this happen._

 

The man on the bridge is not a boy.

 

The man on the bridge does not smile, and certainly not anything like a gunshot wound.

 

The man on the bridge looks at the Soldier, and it is like no injury he has sustained during a Mission.  It is like punishment. 

 

It is like when he is very still, and the cords he wears deliver shock after shock, each stronger than the next, until he is convulsing from it.  It is like when he is very still, and a hand he cannot push away slaps across his face, and even when the sharpness is gone the sting remains.  It is like when he is very still, and he is alone in the dark, a bullet back in its gun, and they do not know or do not care that the Soldier can feel the femur where it has punctured through skin, that the metal arm is hanging out of its socket and straining what little flesh holds it in place.

 

It is like when he has stopped being so very still, and he is crying and begging and all that happens is that the laughter gets louder and harsher and crueler and the hurt only hurts more.

 

The man on the bridge looks at the Soldier, and it is like a pain that stops showing but will never start healing.

 

The man on the bridge looks at the Soldier, and he is not the boy with the gunshot wound smile anymore.

 

The Soldier knows: _I am too late._

 


End file.
